


Place

by shutupeccles



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Love, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-07
Updated: 2010-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutupeccles/pseuds/shutupeccles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two places Merlin visits every year as he waits for Arthur’s return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Place

There are two places Merlin visits on the same day every year. One has been preserved by some sort of Heritage Society; the other has changed with almost every visit.

He comes to the latter first, the one that is synthetically alive. Today it is bleak and empty. He holds the black umbrella above his head and listens to rain thrum against taut fabric, _plint_ into water already pooling in uneven paving stones and _shhh_ upon the sparse grass remaining at the shore of the lake. The surface of the lake dimples and ripples as individual drops are accepted into the larger body. Their aquatic joy adds to his pain for even the water of the lake is not the same as when this place was truly alive; when this was **their** place.

The grass upon which Arthur first claimed Merlin in those acts of truest intimacy had been torn up seven years ago and the fertile soil beneath covered with ugly cement squares. The still thriving tree where Arthur had carved his love for Merlin - forbidden to be expressed within city walls - was torn down only months ago. A metal sculpture supposedly depicting love took its place, a cold and heartless thing that Merlin detests. The tree was a living testimony to every human emotion. It had inhaled their first tentatively whispered declarations of stigmatised love and exhaled a blessing of acceptance upon them; inhaled their louder moans of bodily pleasure to exhale joy at their union; inhaled sharp voices raised in bitterly stabbing anger and exhaled peace. During the centuries since Arthur’s death it had inhaled Merlin’s grief and exhaled hope.

_He will return_

Merlin looks at the rain sodden wooden bench with further despair. He should be sharing that seat with Arthur, getting their backsides wet as they laugh and argue over the ridiculousness of human progress, hands brushing against each other, blue eyes – would Arthur’s eyes be blue? Would they shine with the magical fire of love? Would Arthur care to know him at all?

He dismisses these questions as pointless. Without the breath of their ancient tree to sustain him Merlin no longer believes Arthur will return at all.

And so he goes to the place of death.

 

Battery powered LED torches are provided for every member of the tour group. Merlin can still smell the pitch and smoke of the flaming sticks he carried through these tunnels, sees the stains of incomplete combustion inside the upper arch. Every footfall raises a myriad of memories with the dust, threatening to choke him. _Dragon, dungeons, Gaius, Arthur imprisoned for wanting to save him, Lancelot, Morgana, Gwen, accusations, premonitions, retributions, laughter, acknowledgement, fear._

Always there was fear. Fear of being wrongly accused or worse, of being rightly accused; of death, pain, friendships severed, of failure, losing someone trusted and loved...

Today’s guide and other visitors prattle on unchecked. Merlin gave up trying to correct people’s misconceptions decades ago having decided a) the majority were too proud and too stupid to listen to any voice but their own, and b) numerous inaccuracies and conflicting versions could be used to his advantage. Misinformation protects the Heritage Foundation which in turn protects Arthur as well as Merlin’s true identity.

He reaches out to touch a soot encrusted stone.

“Sir, do not...” the young guide’s voice is strict, even the polluting carbon is deemed sacrosanct.

His eyes shimmer and she stops, nods in obedient acknowledgement. Each guide is a holy priestess of earth but not all are privileged to meet Merlin in person. He is used to anonymity on every day but this, the day of Arthur’s death.

“Would you care to go on alone My Lord?”

“If I may.”

She passes a thick circle of antique keys from a special pouch at her belt and gently squeezes his fingers. It is a subtle yet emotion-filled gesture, rare enough to deserve formal acknowledgement.

“Thank you Daughter.”

The weight of the keys is familiar. Both he and Arthur handled them so often they could tell them apart in complete darkness. Merlin will need only three today.

The first opens the door to the burial catacombs, closed to the public for half a century.

The second to the tombs of Kings, none but Merlin has stepped foot in here for almost a millennium.

The third Arthur’s hand has never touched although its twin is buried with him. This key seems to burn with cold whenever Merlin holds it, but that is only an illusion caused by grief as the metal readily accepts his body heat. Merlin touches the narrow door he magically veneered with marble to set Arthur apart from the others. He turns the key and pushes it open to sorrowfully murmur “I mourn you Beloved” before stepping inside. He greets Arthur’s remains the same way every time.

“As I mourn you my love,” a familiar voice replies.

This has never happened before. The speaker does not look to him, concentrating as he is on the stone figure atop King Arthur’s coffin. A ringed forefinger traces the lines of expressive facial features represented in inflexible granite.

“How did you get...?”

“Who made this?”

They ask at the same time. The young man turns to look at him and Merlin’s spirit dances. It is Arthur, his Arthur; young, alive and whole again.

“I’m sorry Merlin, what? I was wondering whose craftsmanship this is. Truly exquisite detail, even the fine lines around the eyes. Only one person knew me so well. Did you make this?”

“Yes. Arthur, how did you get out, or in, or, how?”

“As for out, I neither know nor wish to know. In is easy, I have a key,” he presents it to Merlin. It’s warm and pristine with no evidence of tarnish or gore from sinking into a slowly rotting corpse. “My mother gave it to me and told me all sorts of what I thought was rubbish before she died so...Never mind that part. I asked a woman in the gift shop if this was a fake. She became very excited, more so once she saw my ring and called that crumpet with the keys to bring me down here. I don’t recall what I expected to find when she showed me the marble door, treasure or something equally juvenile on reflection. Certainly not,” his gaze returns to the burial monument and continues in a softer voice, “certainly not my dead self. Crumpet said I could stay as long as necessary, that she had to go but someone should be along shortly, that **He** always comes on this day.” He looks at Merlin again, into his eyes this time and smiles. “I knew it would be you. The first time I covered a stone hand with mine I heard your voice, memories resurfaced - as if a piece of me had been lost, only I didn’t know it was lost until it was found again.”

“You weren’t afraid?”

“Terrified at first, but you’re here now. Can we please talk somewhere else? Is that marble on the door? A tad pretentious don’t you think?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s stunning Merlin. I would prefer something more personal, that’s all.” He removes a dagger from the shelf of artefacts interred alongside the king.

“You can’t...”

“This is still mine isn’t it?” Arthur turns to the effigy of his long ago older self. “Excuse me, me? Do I mind if I take some of my stuff? No I do not, help myself. Jolly good.”

“You’re an idiot.” Merlin looks at Arthur in disbelief. Arthur throws a Merlin-grin back at him.

“Takes one to know one. Could you remove the marble please?”

“Why?”

“Just do it Merlin!”

That sounds more like his Arthur so he complies, immediately regretting it as Arthur digs into the wood with his blade.

“Are you defacing heritage listed property?”

“If a man can’t vandalise his own tomb then I don’t want to know what’s become of the world.”

“What are you writing?”

“Arthur Pendragon woz ‘ere, what do you think?”

“The mood you’re in I dread to think. Are you always so odd?”

“Not quite. I’ve had a harrowing day what with meeting my dead self; then meeting someone most people believe is as real as the tooth fairy; having so many memories swimming through my brain – not just images but smells, tastes, textures, tastes, emotions; did I mention being in a room with my dead self, because that is rather the most traumatic of the lot. I doubt you’d get through it all without becoming slightly unhinged Merlin.” 

Merlin concedes Arthur may have a point and he silently watches him calmly blow a curled sliver of wood from the door, spin the dagger expertly between his fingers and slide it faultlessly into its sheath.

“Let those who insisted upon forcing you behind or beneath me recognise that your proper place is, as always beside me.” Arthur says softly as he steps back to let Merlin read the new epitaph.

_Herein be found Arthur, lover and beloved of Merlin._

_Neither life nor death shall divide them._

 

Merlin traces a fingertip over each letter, petrifying the wood so the words can never be destroyed.

Arthur locks the door and pockets his key. Merlin puzzles over how the key was removed from an obviously inviolate tomb as they return the other set to the smiling priestess.

“Not thinking about that Merlin. Our first priority should be getting to know one another again. I’ll follow you to our lake.”

“I doubt you’ll be impressed...”

Arthur isn’t.

He suggests an immediate plan of action to set things right. Merlin takes his hand and presses his fingers in silent agreement. His love has truly returned.

 

 

 

Merlin and Arthur visit the lake several times a year.

The geometric atrocity has been sold to a wealthy man with no legitimate artistic taste and many young trees have been planted in its place. The concrete pavers will soon be removed and fresh turf laid.

A wooden fence was recently erected around the lake to prevent drowning accidents after an elderly gentleman fell in and perished. The wood came from the ancient tree which once lived beside this very lake. Expressions of lust, anger, prejudice and affection are carved into the wood on a daily basis. Every cut heals during the night without scarring, as though the timber still lives. One declaration of love remains, one engraved during the tree’s adolescence.

Merlin’s finger traces the simple rectangular outline. Arthur links their fingers and they trace the words together.

_ Arthur  _

_ Loves  _

_ Merlin _

 

Merlin brings Arthur’s fingers to his lips. Arthur wordlessly leads Merlin into their tent, open to the view of the lake. Both are bathed in the red-gold light of sunset as they renew their physical connection after beginning the restoration of ‘their’ place. Soft sounds of mutual pleasure carry across the water to bring past into present and build a promise for the future.

The words on the railing suddenly burn from within, crawling like fire salamanders to leave a new message, one which will remain unchanged: 

_Here Merlin did lie with his beloved Arthur._

_Neither life nor death divides those who love truly._

 

Two names ring out in a combined voice to be absorbed by the wood. The ancient tree releases its final breath, binding their souls for eternity.


End file.
